Lonebiker.net

We arrived in Tunisia and made directly for Tunis. We were slightly concerned on entering the capital to have the first three ATM money dispensers refuse our request for cash, but having checked into a decently clean hotel which didn’t smell of drains – they were to get worse – we strolled through the Ville Nouvelle, and were rewarded on our fourth attempt. Greatly relieved, we spent the day strolling through the Tunis Medina, surprised at the laisez-faire attitude of the vendors. After Morocco we were expecting an unrelenting attack on our personal space. It seems the police regulate the way the merchants behave with the tourists.

Mooching round Tunis, we were surprised at the European feel of the place. Like Morocco, copious coffee shops filled with men lingering over glasses of espresso but there was also a 1940s French theatre, the odd bar (with Alcoholic Drinks), ice cream parlours and, most excitingly, Women. Women in the street, women sitting in cafes, women in the shops. I no longer felt so painfully conspicuous sitting in a coffee shop – there were still some cafes with a clear but invisible “male only” rule, but all in all I felt less of a pariah. Another equally exciting but more intriguing discovery was that Tunisians seem to have a fetish for second-hand clothes – something that made me feel even more at home. Exploring outside the medina walls and into true local markets we were astonished to come across tables and tables of worn shoes, old T-shirts, dresses, shirts etc. With pangs from a youth spent trawling Portabello Road, I felt it my bargain hunting duty to dive in alongside the Tunisian sisters. Matt seemed less keen though, and after 10 minutes rummaging it became clear it was Time To Move On. Another trip, with more luggage space I think…

Leaving the second hand bargain basement deal of the century souk, we headed off to explore Cap Bon, the finger of land jutting out east from Tunis. Bordered to the north of the finger by a mountainous ridge, the weather was looking a little grim, but the scenery was spectacular, and so we opted to camp. Had we known it was going to rain quite so hard and long through the night we might have decided otherwise, but it was a good excuse to try out our latest purchase of two fluffy sheepskins we found in Tunis. . Un-refreshed from our damp night in the tent, we carried on to visit the Punic settlement of Kerkouane, one of the best examples of how a Punic settlement would have been laid out, and from there to Zaghouan. Here there is a Roman temple to the water gods, and the start of a 47kms aqueduct to ancient Carthage. Parts of this remarkable feature can still be seen along the road back to Tunis, where we were headed, ever hopeful of getting our Libyan visas. We had a generous host in Tunis who put us up for two days, and allowed us the great luxury of using her washing machine!…

… Not only that but home-cooked food, a hot shower and all sorts of other luxuries. A great treat, many thanks to the Meade/Abrougui family. Relishing the novelty of a bag of clean, fresh smelling clothes, we set off west for El Kef: a small town with a magnificent Ottoman fort (gatekeeper open to bribes) and delicious melewi sandwich shop (flat “Arab bread” wrap with tuna, salad and harissa). After a smelly night at Hotel de Ramparts we rode further east into beautiful countryside in search of Hammam Melegue, the fabled Roman baths still bubbling above hot springs. Remote and picturesque we were enchanted on arrival but disappointed to find the baths drained and gatekeepers not open to bribery. Thwarted, we packed our swimming costumes away and retraced our tracks eastward for Dougga.

Dougga, one of Tunisia’s best Roman ruins, built on an earlier Nubian city, had wondrous herringbone-paved winding streets, polished over two millennia by a stream of never ending inhabitants. Locals had lived there until the 1960’s before being found new dwellings by the reforming Bourguiba government. We had originally intended to visit Dougga the following day, but the hot springs being closed, we got there late in the day. It had been our intention to camp, as the pervious nights’ accommodation had been pretty dismal and the Lonely Liar (Planet) had recommended skipping the hotel on offer (theft). We had thought it might be fun to try our luck and camp among the ruins, but realising there were night guardians, and that it was a World Heritage Site, it seemed unlikely. The car park attendant suggested we try our luck at the other entrance to the site, and driving the circuitous route around, we were waved over by a touring police car and asked where we were going – the road only lead to the site. We told them we were looking for a suitable place to camp, all the hotels being too expensive. We didn’t expect them to offer the piece of grass in front of the police station, which we politely declined, and told them we were looking for somewhere more ‘wild’ than that. Tongue in cheek we mentioned Dougga, hoping they would leave us be, but they gave us an escort to the site, instructed the gate keepers we were to camp that night, introduced us to the night guardian, and made sure we were happy. We were offered the strip of ground alongside the amphitheatre; it was a full moon, rising large and fiery orange, illuminating the whole site and casting shadows all around. We ate our picnic supper on the steps watching the moon rise between the remaining standing columns, picking out shooting stars and speeding satellites.

The ruins stood eerie but magnificent. We could almost hear the ancient ghostly bustle of city life as we wondered down paved streets by light of the moon; it was an extraordinary and memorable night. We awoke early to mist, grey cloud and a Japanese tourist with a zoom lens. Feeling conspicuous we packed up swiftly and, with no news from Libya, decided to head North to Bizerte. Travelling through beautiful meadowy countryside, we stopped off in the city of Beja and bought some juicy dates from a charming fruit seller. Arriving in Bizerte was a world away from the tranquil Roman ruins. Bustling and picturesque, the port was crawling with activity. We spent a lazy day strolling the key side, wondering along the gusty beach and milling in the market. Lunch was had in the harbour: we bought our prawns and fish at the market to be grilled on one of the street BBQs. Simple, understated, rustic perfection! Sated and revived, I decided to attempt a clothes wash in the afternoon only to have my cardigan blown off the windowsill and nicked by a passer-by. With the little clothes we have, I felt this was a sore blow. On further reflection, Matt persuaded me it was a good thing. Weight off the bike after all. Small consolation but my bag does seem a little easier to do up…

Desperate to carry on the chosen route, we found ourselves passing the Capitainerie, and in a frantic effort to find any means of getting to Egypt without passing through Libya enquired if there were any boats likely to go that way who might like a couple of supernumerary crew members. Told in no uncertain terms this was not possible since 9/11 and all that, we left deflated and resigned to wait for the Colonel… Our waiting game took us south to the city of Sfax and the ferry to the idyllic islands of Kerkennah.